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There was a time in your life when you liked change. When you were daring and adventurous. When you never did the same thing twice. You hadn’t been like that in a long time; Natasha had never known that side of you. To her, you were an otherwise meticulous planner. Everything had a place, and everything had a reason. Nothing was ever sporadic; nothing except for her.
Natasha Romanoff is an entirely too unorganized person for being a superhero and a spy. Her habits are flexible, interchangeable; she likes to branch out, to try new things. You suppose you should be grateful for that. If she was anything like you, you’re not so sure you’d be sitting in the Avengers Tower sleepily flipping through a textbook hearing her laugh every so often.
She invited you to dinner with the team, but after the day you’ve had, you decline with a kiss on her shoulder and a shake of your head. You couldn’t wait to study, and your girlfriend prided herself on being more of a distraction than a help. Now, you weren’t sure sending her away was such a good idea.
There’s been an ache at the top of your scalp since this morning, and it’s progressed into stabbing pains behind your eyes and down your neck. Her scent lingers everywhere in the room; shampoo on the pillows, perfume on the sweats. The collar of her softest crewneck is above your nose, her favorite perfume lingering on the cotton and your teeth pinch some of the soft fabric as you study. Natasha says you’re absolutely adorable like this, but your face only flushes every time you realize how lost you’ve become in your academics. Natasha isn’t lucky enough to avoid your cooing when she’s the one floating above her head in concentration, so reluctantly you suppose it’s only fair she gets to have her fun with you. The sight of her completely emerged in a missions report, hair twisted between her fingers and bottom lip pulled between her teeth is your definition of domestic bliss. She looks so innocent when she’s not covered in the blood of an enemy or breaking Steve’s back during hand-to-hand combat; it almost makes you forget you’re in love with a trained assassin.
Your favorite time to admire her is when she’s asleep. Her cheeks become a shade of soft pink, and her shoulders relax. She breathes slowly. You almost had a heart attack the first time you watched her, and you counted to twenty-seven before she took another breath in. She moves so fast when she’s awake. Everything has a purpose, and even if she has no plan, everything is done efficiently. It’s entirely ethereal watching her unwind and drop her walls. She’s beautiful; you’re best friend.
Once, when Tony found you in the kitchen, nose buried in an Calculus textbook with an assortment of colored inks to your left, he’d sarcastically made a remark about your inability to ‘let loose’. He wasn’t wrong, but he’d left the kitchen howling with laughter as you hurled highlighters and gel pens at his back. Natasha was never any better than her teammates. She disrupted the order of your notebooks (which were all color coded), purposefully folded your long-sleeved shirts with your pajama bottoms, and messed with the caps on your highlighters; anything she could to provoke a childish huff from high in your chest, because she knew it would lead to you burying your nose in her neck and whining into her sensitive skin about how you hated her annoying ass. She’d do anything for a chance to hold you… and she liked seeing you all pouty, even if she continuously denied it.
With that being established, your move from campus to the Avengers Tower was entirely sporadic. You’d been dating for almost a year and a half, and the only ones that knew were your parents and Natasha’s teammates. Even then, her housemates (if they even fit that description) only had any idea because of the advanced security system in the Tower that NYU wouldn’t even be able to dream of. Your roommate was out of town for the weekend, and Natasha had seized the rare opportunity to be in your space immediately. She loved having you in her room, at her home, with her people, but she wouldn’t deny you looked entirely different in your dorm, in your space, with your people. She would later reluctantly add that your decorative style was better than hers, even if she did fight you on the color of the comforter during the move.
You were at your desk, typing up the last of a frustratingly exhausting research paper when she asked. She was on your bed, holding one of your childhood stuffed animals in her lap, sporting one of her many NYU crecknecks that she’d bought when you were first admitted into the engineering program to ‘be your biggest supporter’. She hadn’t expected you to say yes, in fact she’d expected you to blubber on with flushed red cheeks and tell her all the reasons why you couldn’t, or that you weren’t ready. That didn’t come. Well it did, however not immediately. Not until you replaced your teddy bear in her lap and worried through your thick eyelashes about what her housemates would say. Maybe it was the delirium that fueled your prompt decision to change the course of your entire life, or maybe it was just the trust you had in Natasha being your person. Whatever you wanted to blame, it was one of the best spontaneous decisions you’ve made.
Natasha’s smirking in the doorway of your room, waiting for you to notice. Her arms are crossed over her chest, waiting for your attention to linger away from your textbook onto her eyes so she can tease you about stealing her clothes again. She doesn’t mind, but it makes you blush every time she digs at you for missing her so much when she’s just downstairs; when this time you were the one that chose to be alone. Her smirk drops the second she sees you wince. It was so slight, so repressed, her lips pulled tight. Had she been anyone else, she wouldn’t have noticed how everything about you was off right now. It made her belly tighten with guilt for letting it be so oblivious to her until now.
She knocks on the door before she says anything. She’s scared you out of your skin too many times before when all of your attention is focused on your academics. She hates that she has to create such an annoying sound just to avoid startling you right now, but she knows how bad your anxiety becomes when she doesn’t; being involved with an avenger, romantically or otherwise, paints a target on your back instantaneously you’ve learned. Her heart clenches when you wince, and let the slightly damp crewneck fall onto your chest.
“Hi, Милый (sweetheart).” She whispers sweetly, closing the door behind her. It’s soundless, but even that makes you flinch. Your hands reach for her before she’s even halfway across the room, eyes pleading. You need her. You want her. You’ve tried to suppress how your limbs ache all over, and how every time you start a new passage in your textbook you have to go back multiple times just to confirm you haven’t missed an entire section. You just need Natasha to hold you. To rub your back, braid your hair, relieve the endless pressure in your chest by just being her. You should’ve known today was going to be a bad day when you’d woken up in an empty bed with a persistent pain in your head. “Hey, hey. What’s wrong? What are the tears for, milaya devushka (pretty girl)?”
Natasha takes the heavy textbook off of your lap. She closes it with your highlighter between the pages you’ve been dwelling over for an hour, trying to move as quickly as she can. She just wants to hold you, but she knows you’ll never let yourself relax if your work still lingers so close and unfinished. You’d promised her that the assignments you had to revise were nothing heavy, and that (after she found you becoming faint in the shower two weeks ago) you wouldn’t continue pushing yourself so hard. The both of you were alike in horrible ways. You gave your all, always, even if it was slowly killing you.
“I’m sorry.” You say weakly. Natasha’s heart breaks. She should’ve seen it sooner. If she couldn’t use what the Red Room had taught her for good, what was she doing here? With you, with the Avengers? Why had you always been her biggest blindspot?
Natasha shakes her head, and finally gets to pull you into her arms. You feel warm. Natasha frowns, “None of that, Dorogaya (darling). Okay?” She’s always so soft with you. If you were feeling more like yourself you would’ve had something to say about her pet names, but taunting her was the last thing on your mind. The first thing was the pain. Natasha knows that though. She’s always one step ahead of you. “Your head, printsessa (princess?”
You nod, and she frowns. You’ve suffered migraines for as long as she’s known you, but the chills that are running down your spine aren’t a part of your usual symptoms. You’re sick, and it breaks her heart. “Let’s get this off of you, baby.” She mumbles affectionately, pushing you away from her chest just far enough so that she can take the purple crewneck in her steady hands. You shiver when her cold hands drag across your skin, taking away your warmth as they travel. She discards the crewneck haphazardly onto the floor, quickly pulling you in close. “What do you want, baby? Tylenol? A bath? I can steal some of Wanda’s lavender tea.”
You turn your face so that your lips are pressed to her shoulder, and the lingering scent of laundry detergent is surrounding you. Natasha smiles fondly, taking the opportunity to slip a few of her cold fingers beneath the band of your bra. You sigh at how nice it feels, relaxing into her touch. “You.”
“Hm?” Natasha hums, brushing a few strands of unruly hair away from your eyes. She guides your lips away from her shoulder, sweeping the pad of her thumb across your bottom lip. She giggles watching your eyes flutter, your head lost between the pain, the exhaustion, and her. Is it possible to be drunk off of a person? “What did you say, kukolka (little doll)?”
“You.” You repeat, wincing as another strike of sharp pain stabs your scalp. Natasha frowns. She goes to lay you down on the pillows, but your fingers curl around her top before she can let go. “Don’t go. Please.”
“Baby, you’re not going to be able to sleep if you don’t take something.” Natasha drops her lips to your forehead, letting the sweet smell of your shampoo and conditioner relax her muscles. She doesn’t know how she got so lucky. To have you all to herself in her bed with you in her clothes; it overwhelms her sometimes. You’re so much better than she can ever be. You’re so innocent, she’s worried she’ll taint the pure goodness in your heart. You remind her so often that you’d choose her again in a heartbeat, that there was nobody else but her; there would never be anyone that could even compare.
“I don’t need to sleep.” You mumble, despite your eyes being closed, heavy with desire to sleep. Natasha almost laughs watching you plead your case. You’d sacrifice everything to continue feeling her arms around you. That’s what you need right now. No amount of tylenol or tea, no matter how appealing they sound, could make you feel better then she could. “Please. I just want you to hold me.”
Natasha nods. She asks FRIDAY to turn off the lights, encasing the two of you in complete darkness. She moves the pillows around the both of you so that you’re not laying completely flat, her chest already starting to rise and fall slower as she lets herself relax. You hum contently, grabbing her hand that isn’t rubbing your back. Natasha smiles, squeezing your hand, wishing that she could be the one feeling this hurt instead of you.